Sherlock and John get a cat
by MissP2010
Summary: Where John gets a cat because he is feeling lonely, much to Sherlock's displeasure. But just what are Sherlock's real motives for hating the cat? Hilarity ensues...


**Title**: Sherlock and John get a cat  
**Author**: missp2010  
**Rating**: PG (I guess.. not quite pre-slash... more heavy bromance, totally work safe.)  
**Characters/Pairing**: Sherlock, John  
**Warnings**: Hint at slash/heavy bromance  
**Summary**: Where John gets a cat because he is feeling lonely, much to Sherlock's displeasure. But just what are Sherlock's real motives for hating the cat? Hilarity ensues...

'John.'

'Yes Sherlock?'

'Something is asleep in my coat'.

'So there is.'

Sherlock was referring, of course, to the four-legged fur covered feline flea-bag (try saying that four times fast) John had taken in during one of Sherlock's unexplained disappearances (the most recent lasting a week), out of sheer boredom, or, God help him, loneliness.

The cat in question was a world weary tortoiseshell with a swagger in its step John had, rather cleverly, in his opinion, dubbed, 'Neapolitan'.  
_  
'It's because he has 3 different colours Sherlock. Like the ice cream.'_

_'I am familiar with that ice cream John. You've dragged me along to Iceland enough times. What continues to puzzle me, however, is why on earth you would choose to name it something so ridiculous on the basis of something I can see you think is really rather clever.'_

_'Well what would you name it then?'_

'Cat.'

'Cat?'  
_  
'Yes. Cat. It is a cat so it is only logical to call it as such. I thought even you would find that much obvious.'_

John had hoped Sherlock would, at the very least, learn to tolerate the poor thing, for after all, the furry bugger could be charming as hell with a sly head loll and a twirl around your ankles.  
But Sherlock had only continued to assail John with his grievances.

_There are paw prints on my microscope._

_Something has been at my tripe. I needed that for an experiment._

_John, unless it is actually you that has been moulting, I suggest you get that feline companion of yours to have my coat dry cleaned._

John began to genuinely worry he would one day get home to find his dear cat crucified on the kitchen table.

5 days it had been. 5 days since Sherlock had found Poli (Neapolitan was such a mouthful, especially when followed by the words 'Did Sherlock put you in the microwave again?') curled up in his coveted winter coat, wearing a look of such distaste John felt he needed a glass of water just to wash down the sight of it.

5 days , 4 boxes of food, 3 new pillows, 2 ruined chairs and 1 extra special surprise in Mrs Hudson's shoe. How time flew by when you were living with a cat and a Sherlock. The two most quirky creatures in existence. At least the cat was tidier. And unconscious for the most part of the day.

Sometimes when John felt the situation would culminate in one of the two having to leave, he thought it over and over and eventually decided he simply couldn't give Sherlock away to Battersea Cats and Dogs home.  
They'd only put him down.

The cat was staying. And that was final. The fluffy beast was good company when Sherlock suddenly decided to go gallivanting across London leaving John in his dusty wake. He felt far less lonely.  
Slightly more like a mad old spinster lady. But definitely far less lonely.

John sighed and ruffled the fur behind Poli's ears. The cat let out a soundless meow, like the smacking of gums, before burying his head further into the gap between John's elbow and stomach. John relaxed into the sofa on which Sherlock had spent so many nights drowning in boredom, and focused on the warm spot created by Poli on his stomach, appreciating the sounds of respiration and sleep emanating from the animal. A deep purr and odd snorts interjecting his thoughts every now and then.

Sherlock had left, not half an hour before, in a flurry of irritation and acrimony. Rather than helping Sherlock with his latest case, John had spent the best part of the evening dangling a shoelace for Poli to skitter around after, before making the wonderful discovery that the funny little feline would chase after a scrunched up post-it note like a tiger would a zebra, slipping all over the floor, pupils dilated until his eyes were solid black. The cat was lovely, anyone would have to admit. John was endlessly amused and managed to work his way through a whole pad of post-it notes before Sherlock had stormed out, the slamming of the door making Poli do a sideways flip onto the kitchen table knocking several beakers of clear fluid onto the floor.

John now lay on the sofa, taken aback and really rather worried he'd somehow managed to.._.hurt_...Sherlock's feelings. Every time he thought this it almost made him laugh. Never before had he found himself in such a ridiculous situation involving Sherlock, and that was really saying something. It was all a bit of a laugh really. He never once thought the cat could genuinely upset Sherlock. It was more comical than anything. Sherlock's face when Poli had chewed on his gloves or used his leg as a scratching post. He sometimes felt like he was in a sitcom, waiting for the canned laughter to play whenever Poli got one over on poor old Sherlock yet again.  
Except it never came.

A small chirruping sound entered his head and he realised he had squeezed a handful of Poli's fur a little too hard in his anxiety over Sherlock. The cat, annoyed, gave a lazy yawn before dropping right back to sleep. _Alright for some_ John thought.

It calmed John to watch the animal sleep. Spread out on his stomach, dead to the world. John rested a palm, ever so lightly, on Poli's stomach which slowly rose and fell with gentle breath, bobbing John's hand up and down in the process. The movement hardly visible. He felt the world slipping away in his peripheral vision, all thoughts of Sherlock in the past half hour merging with the cat before him until Sherlock became the feline, resting contentedly with his head in the crook of John's elbow, sighing happily, one long pale arm splayed across John's abdomen while the other hung down off the side of the sofa, brushing the floor. A fine mess.

A smile slowly creased John's face as his eyes fluttered closed, completely at the mercy of this odd and unexpected dream.

When John woke it was late. Much later than it had been when he had drifted off. Just gone midnight in fact. He quietly swore and made to raise himself up a fraction when he realised Poli was still fast asleep on him, weighing him down. The animal looked so content that John had neither the heart nor the energy to disturb him. He thought at least one of them should get a good night's rest. He settled back down into the sofa again, careful not to wake the sleeping cat. He tipped his head up to the ceiling and let loose a heavy sigh as he remembered why he was lying there in the first place. _Sherlock ought to be back now_, he thought, staring into the darkness.

'You only ever had to ask.'

The voice made John jump a mile in the air, the soldier in him reacting to possible danger, sending the now fully awake cat scrambling into the safety of the kitchen. His heart threatening to explode in his chest, John, failing to find a light switch, desperately willed his eyes to adjust to the darkness around him, trying to determine the source of the voice. He needn't have looked far, for Sherlock was seated, cross-legged on the coffee table, no more than a foot from where John had been lying on the sofa for God knows how long.

'Bloody hell Sherlock what's the matter with you?' John croaked, voice still laden with sleep, trying to make eye contact with the face in front of him, which was only partially illuminated by the lamplight seeping in past the thin curtains.

Sherlock looked almost serene, chin resting lightly on tented fingers, as if in deep thought.  
Like that was unusual.

He didn't seem to be about to shed any light on the situation.

'Sherlock!' John tried again, voice somewhat clearer.

'What do you think you were doing? And what do you mean I only had to ask? Ask you what?'

John was breathing heavily. He realised that, at will, Sherlock could make him feel like he'd run a mile.

Silence passed between them once more, except this time John let it be. There was something telling him he shouldn't say anything more until Sherlock said something first. However long that took.

Sherlock wasn't looking at John, but at a point on the wall behind John, eyes not really studying anything on the wall in question, just not wanting to look John in the eye. John suddenly wished they had clapper lights, because he wasn't in reaching distance of a light switch. The darkness of the room only added to the strangeness of the situation, but John found he couldn't move. Sherlock had an effect on him just then that would have put Medusa herself to shame.

Just as John found some coherent words dancing on his lips, threatening to escape as sound, Sherlock spoke once more.

'If you were lonely.'

Picking up right where he left off, what, 10 minutes ago now? It felt to John like a lifetime they had been sitting there.

'I would have stayed.'

Suddenly the meaning of the words hit home and John could do nothing but sit there, mouth agape. Sherlock's eyes finally met John's own. He looked so sorrowful. Like a child who had pilfered from the biscuit tin only to get a smack around the face. Except John was the one who felt like a child. A small boy sitting in the middle of the now too big, too soft, sofa, hands folded in his lap, covered in orange, black and white cat fur. He wondered how he would ever get up again.

'Sherlock I...' But the words died before they ever reached John's lips. If he even had them in the first place. He felt relief wash through him when he saw Sherlock open his mouth to speak again.  
Filling the all too painful silence.

'I know I'm always gone...' He stopped. Looked down. Searching for the right words.  
John wished he had a camera, Sherlock Holmes, lost for words.

'That even when I'm here I'm still... gone.' At the last word he looked up to meet John's gaze again. The sorrow had not subsided, only intensified. Something thawed in John.

'I don't want you to feel alone.'

Sherlock's eyes bored holes in John, utterly impassioned.

'You do... matter.'

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed when he said this, like his own words confused him. Unsure how to carry on, worried he might as well be speaking in tongues, he pressed his lips together.

But John understood. And he reached out a hand and placed it on Sherlock's crossed leg to tell him so.

Those were all the words he needed.

The sunlight crept in through the slits of John's eyes, prying them open. He was greeted with a view of strange patterns of light on an otherwise blurry world. He felt a low purring at his neck as his eyes adjusted, vibrations just behind his ear. Poli. The form shifted.

No. Not Poli.

Sherlock was gently snoring against the nape of John's neck, as gentle as the purring of a cat, long pale arm twisted across John's torso, almost, but not quite, brushing the floor beneath the sofa on the other side.

Legs entangled at the other end. A fine mess.

John's eyes had adjusted, and, although his view was rather horizontal at that moment in time, he could quite clearly see Poli stretched out on Sherlocks coat, where he had left it in a pile on the table. The ginger fur most striking of all the three colours against the black material, caught in the fibres from where Poli had shifted around in the night and left her fur behind. It danced patterns all along the back of the coat and down the arms. How on earth had the cat managed that aside from deliberately shedding fur over every inch of the coat? Revenge exacted for Sherlock taking the cat's place on the sofa beside John, John supposed.  
_  
It's worth the dry cleaning bill,_ John thought, as the pale, gangly man behind him shifted and burrowed deeper into John's neck, sighing softly as he slept.

John studied the alabaster hand that dangled limp over the side of the sofa, a few inches from his own, and slowly hooked his index finger in under Sherlock's thumb. The thumb flexed slightly at the touch, John smiled.

The whole business with the cat had forced Sherlock to face the unpleasant truth that his work took him away from John far too often, and for far too long. John taking in a cat would have seemed ordinary to any other person, but to Sherlock it was a slap in the face. He probably would have held a strong distaste for the animal anyway, John decided, but Sherlock saw straight through John's motives for getting the animal and it hurt him. It really hurt him.

John now enclosed Sherlock's thumb with as many fingers as he could, holding it tight. Sherlock returned the gesture by squeezing his free fingers over John's hand.

And there they lay.

And all because of that damn cat.

'To tell you the truth, he did bring me a few dead mice. Dissecting them provided me with information I might otherwise have needed to make a trip to Bart's morgue for.'

John felt Sherlock smile against his neck. He let out a chuckle, deep and throaty.

'Just promise me one thing, Sherlock.'

Sherlock's breathing quietened, intent on listening to John's next words.

'Stop putting him in the microwave.'

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